Phosphorescent

“Song for Zula”

Dead Oceans

50

"Song for Zula" is a haunted, rueful tune that wears its gravity lightly. Matthew Houck's lyrics portray the post-traumatic stress of a soured relationship ("I saw love disfigure me/ Into something I am not recognizing"; "I will not open myself up this way again") and the narrator's attempts to will himself out of his funk. But the music itself—a four-chord bass-and-drum-machine vamp topped with swirling strings—never loses its cool. There's no chorus, no sense of resolution, just mounting desperation. The futility of the protagonist's struggle plays out anew in each verse: Houck's voice will rise to a gorgeously fragile peak, only to dissipate into a wounded mumble. When he sings the final line—"I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free"—it's clear that "if" is the operative word. For now, our narrator is powerless, imprisoned in this eerily placid nightmare of a love song. —Hank Shteamer

Courtney Barnett

“Avant Gardener”

House Anxiety / Marathon Artists

49

Courtney Barnett might want to try working backward more often. The 25-year-old Australian's most immediately remarkable gift is in her lyrics, razor-detailed narratives that can be wittily rambling and self-deprecating. That's where her songwriting process generally starts. "Avant Gardener", she has said, was different—the music, an archetypal slacker-rock rumble that tops bone-simple bass with psych-scraping twang-squall, came first. Maybe that's what makes it such a natural backdrop for her deadpan, spoken-sung tale.

A first-person account of guilt-driven Monday yardwork leading to anaphylactic shock would be unusual in any style. Barnett's recitation of specifics, at once matter-of-fact and punning, cleverly cultivates the similarity between a medical emergency's altered state of consciousness and the drug-induced kind—and that's even before she compares an inhaler to a bong. Crucially, Barnett also knows which particulars to leave out: A mention of "Uma Thurman post-overdosing kickstart" resonates without needing to name the movie, and for American ears, the use of Celsius rather than Fahrenheit, "triple 0" instead of 9-1-1, or "pseudoephedrine" instead of "pseudoephedrine" just make it all feel truer to an individual voice and perspective. Before Barnett has finished tending her personal garden, she zooms out to cover all human frailty — "I'm not that good at breathing in" is, sooner or later, a universal complaint. By transforming the humdrum into the sublime, her song roundaboutly lives up to its title. —Marc Hogan

Pusha T

“Numbers on the Boards”

Def Jam / G.O.O.D.

48

The rest of My Name Is My Name is more ambitious, more ornate, and more willing to bend radio rap sounds in Pusha T's own image instead of the other way around. But "Numbers on the Boards" is a lesson in exactitude. Distilling the considerable charms of Pusha's first solo album into a svelte two minutes and 44 seconds, each element is pared back to its absolute minimum. The production is Kanye (with the help of Don Cannon and 88-Keys) at his most RZA-esque, all droning bass and clattering percussion, and Pusha's scrunched-nose sneer hasn't sounded this locked in since Malice was rapping at his side. Pusha's greatest strength has always been his ability to flash his fangs with the kind of effortlessness that could be mistaken for disinterest—his menace is the kind that's scarier because you know he's not even breaking a sweat. "'88 Jordan leaping from the free throw," he boasts. "Numbers on the Boards" is one of the most efficient 50-point games in recent years. —Renato Pagnani

DJ Rashad

“Let It Go”

Hyperdub

47

On this highlight from the Rollin EP released by the UK’s Hyperdub label back in the spring, Chicago producer DJ Rashad found the sweet spot between jungle and footwork. A place where the regulating rhythm of the "Amen" break and the erratic tempo of footwork made a new kind of sense together. The song is all transitions, from breakneck keys to lonely strings; there are oceans between each movement in terms of pace, yet in Rashad's hands they melt into one as if they were always meant to be together. In the title's simple refrain are a thousand permissions—to grieve, to accept, to forgive, to move on, to love-- each peeling away like onion to reveal a new skin with which to face the world afresh. Hugely potent, thick with loss and longing, "Let It Go" turned out to be symbolic of the journey footwork itself has taken from insular scene to global influence, mirroring the triumphant rise of Rashad himself.—Ruth Saxelby

DJ Rashad: "Let It Go"

A$AP Ferg

“Hood Pope”

A$AP Worldwide / Polo Grounds / RCA

46

Things are looking bleak in the Trap Lord's dominion. Nothing but hooligans, little kids, and clowns running around this circus, oblivious to their need for nurturing. But is that sort of street-level engagement really within the job description of the Hood Pope? Sounds like A$AP Ferg is as familiar with the actual occupational requirements of the Pope as most of us are. As far as we know, the guy emerges from a poof of smoke to serve as a figurehead, a conduit to the divine draped in gaudy jewels, driving around in a bulletproof, customized vehicle that moves at the speed of this Veryrvre track. You want guidance? Sound advice? Go see your pastor, your gym teacher, Donnie McClurkin or something. “Hood Pope” is a mass blessing, a proclamation from on high to do as Ferg says, not as he does. So in the meantime, all he asks is if you feel this shit, motherfucker sing along. Praise the Lord. —Ian Cohen

Glass Candy

“Warm in the Winter”

Italians Do It Better

45

Artists on the synth-disco label Italians Do It Better tend to present themselves as chilly, look-don’t-touch types too far removed from the tawdry realms of human concern to form basic connections with. Turns out that when they fall, they fall hard. Three chords and sprinkled with enough glitter to fill a factory’s worth of snowglobes, “Warm” is the kind of love song they never seemed capable of: Immediate, forthright, almost too close for comfort. For as much credit as house producer Johnny Jewel gets (and deserves), this moment belongs to singer Ida No, who delivers her lines with the cosmic giddiness of a motivational speaker or a close friend uncorked by psychedelics. “If you should ever look in the mirror and wonder who it is that you are, and wonder what it is that you came for,” she says during the song’s talking middle section, taking you by the shoulders and brushing the hair out of your eyes, “well, I know the answer. You’re beautiful. You came from heaven.” For seven minutes, believe her. —Mike Powell

Parquet Courts

“Stoned and Starving”

What's Your Rupture?

44

On "Stoned and Starving", Andrew Savage is walking through Ridgewood, Queens—that much we can feel. The deadpan Parquet Courts singer often recalls Jonathan Richman circa the Modern Lovers, but here, as on "Borrowed Time", he and the band sound especially distinct. A buried motorik beat evokes the forward-moving rhythm of the city, while guitar clangor drones on and on like the buzz of the subway running overhead, as it does in this area of New York. Savage is an urban troubadour of the mind—he's flipping through magazines, high and hungry, deciding on peanuts or candy, exploring his terrain. With that, he makes a whole universe of a street corner, turning a tiny daily mundanity into the theater of the rock song. The guitar riffs throw themselves out, then reel back in slowly, conjuring the chemically-heightened anxiety of indecision. Parquet Courts understand the resonant power of geography; on "Stoned and Starving", they're a proper New York band not just in location but endearing smart-slacker character, one fixed to their own time. —Jenn Pelly

FKA twigs

“Water Me”

Young Turks

43

FKA twigs told an interviewer earlier this year that she dashed off the lyrics and melody to "Water Me", the eeriest ballad of 2013, "in about seven minutes," just double the length of the song itself. On one hand, this feat is totally comprehensible; plenty of iconic songs were written quickly, and "Water Me" is filled with cavernous space, thanks in large part to twigs' now-Yeezus-credentialed collaborator Arca. On the other, considering how potent the song's simple lyrics actually are, that she flung them on a page in just minutes seems almost too good to be true. Haunting and heartbroken, "Water Me" is abandonment embodied; it floats detached and orbiting in space, frozen, yet perpetually falling. The devastation is palpable, but so is the despairing realism, the one that made the song strike home this year, amidst myriad defeats concerning sexuality and rights: there is no vindication here, nor may there be tomorrow. Twigs' pain is small and guarded, but it is direct, and it echoes. In the song's video, she sheds a solitary thick, plasmic tear as she sings, "I promise I can grow tall/ When making love is free." Such a deeply rooted, elemental sentiment hints that perhaps "Water Me" wasn't such a difficult song to write after all. —Devon Maloney

Todd Terje

“Strandbar (disko)”

Olsen

42

Norwegian DJ Todd Terje has the enviable skill of making the outside world melt away when he enters into one of his euphoric disco cuts. “Strandbar (disko)” is his latest anthem, an almost nine-minute club jam that somehow gets higher and higher with every turn it takes. There are subtle shifts in tone—some gloriously splodgy bass, a dip into piano house—all in service of a groove that cuts right through the center of the track. Terje is a master of the patient build, always knowing exactly when to add another layer, never over-egging his gorgeous palette of sounds despite the strong reliance on repetition. What’s most interesting about “Strandbar (disko)” is how it captures a moment—when golden rays of morning sun shoot into the eyes of ecstatic clubbers—but can also recreate that feeling in seemingly any time or space. It’s a portable piece of elation you can carry around in your pocket, ready to provide a bolt of energy that effortlessly outstrips any artificial stimulant. —Nick Neyland

Janelle Monáe

“PrimeTime” [ft. Miguel]

Bad Boy

41

For all the up-front futurism Janelle Monáe has built into her image, she sure can make a song that feels like you’ve been living with it for years. Part of it is the way “PrimeTime” reveals itself in the context of The Electric Lady, floating in on the heels of a chattering skit with its ghostly backing vocals and muted guitar. More importantly, though, it’s that stunning chorus and the way that, even at such a slow tempo, the beat feels like it can’t stop as Monáe delivers one of her most impressive vocals and Miguel beams in from across the galaxy to supply his guest verse. Her music can get wrapped up in concepts and symbols, but here even the most obvious one, a Minneapolis-in-85 guitar solo, feels freighted with meaning. “PrimeTime” gives us a peek behind the persona at the beating, emotional heart inside the android, and it glistens like a cosmic disco ball. —Joe Tangari